`O pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam and Eve unfallen - in paradise. Now, then - the recitative, for the sake of the moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman - "And from obedience grows my pride and happiness."'

`O no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the tempo, as you will,' said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.

Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that in which the lovers can sing together. The sense of mutual fitness that springs from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at the right moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from the perfect accord of descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted loving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate demand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will not care to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassing dearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In the provinces, too, where music was so scarce in that remote time, how could the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Even political principle must have been in danger of relaxation under such circumstances; and a violin faithful to rotten boroughs must have been tempted to fraternise in a demoralising way with a reforming violoncello. In this case, the linnet-throated soprano, and the full-toned bass, singing,

`With thee delight is every new, With thee is life incessant bliss,'

believed what they sang all the more because they sang it.

`Now for Raphael's great song,' said Lucy, when they had finished the duet. `You do the "heavy beasts" to perfection.'

`That sounds complimentary,' said Stephen, looking at his watch. `By Jove, it's nearly half-past one. Well, I can just sing this.'

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing the tread of the heavy beasts: - but when a singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided sentiments. Minny's mistress was charmed, but Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his taste that he leaped out and scampered under the remotest chiffonnière, as the most eligible place in which a small dog could await the crack of doom.

`Adieu, "graceful consort,"' said Stephen, buttoning his coat across when he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, with the air of rather a patronising lover to the little lady on the music-stool. `My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. I promised to be there at lunch.'

`You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of no consequence: I have said everything in my note.'

`You will be engaged with your cousin tomorrow, I suppose?'

`Yes, we are going to have a little family party. My cousin Tom will dine with us, and poor aunty will have her two children together for the first time. It will be very pretty - I think a great deal about it.'

`But I may come the next day?'

`O yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie - though you can hardly be said not to have seen her, - you have described her so well.'

`Good-by, then.' And there was that slight pressure of the hands and momentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little lady with a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subside immediately when the door is closed, and with an inclination to walk up and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at her embroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least this was the effect on Lucy; and you will not, I hope, consider it an indication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that she just glanced in the chimney glass as her walk brought her near it. The desire to know that one